Page 28 of Mafia Don's Secret Heir
He shifts, wincing slightly, and I feel a pang of guilt for pressing him. But then he speaks, his words slow, deliberate.
“When I was a boy, maybe eight or nine, my father took me to this lake near our summer house. It was a rare day off for him.” His voice is low, carrying the weight of memories he doesn’t share easily. “I remember thinking it was strange, him wantingto spend time with me, when he usually had no patience for anything that didn’t concern the family business.”
I don’t move, afraid even the slightest sound will stop him.
“We sat on this old wooden dock, so old that it would creak with every step. I thought he was going to teach me how to fish or something normal like that.” His lips twist into a bitter smile. “Instead, he handed me a knife and told me to hold it steady. Said every man in this world is born with two choices: to be the predator or the prey. And that I had to decide which one I wanted to be.”
A chill runs down my spine. “At eight?”
Luca nods, his eyes distant. “He made me kill a fish that day. Said if I couldn’t take the life of something small, I’d never survive the bigger things.”
I struggle to reconcile the image of the boy he’s describing with the man in front of me, so hardened and confident, yet burdened by something deeper. “That’s horrible,” I whisper.
“Maybe,” he replies, his tone devoid of emotion, “but it worked. By the time I was twelve, he trusted me to oversee small deals. By sixteen, I was handling more money than most people see in a lifetime. He said I was born to lead, and maybe he was right.”
“But at what cost?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Luca’s gaze snaps to mine, sharp and assessing, but there’s no anger in it. “The cost doesn’t matter. Not in my world.”
I shake my head, my throat tightening. “It should.”
He watches me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders relax. “What about your father?” he asks. “The way he lived must’ve cost you something too.”
The question catches me off guard, cutting through the careful walls I’ve built around my grief, as if the man asking the questions has nothing to do with his murder. For a second, Iconsider brushing him off, but the look in his eyes stops me. He’s not just asking. He’s listening. “My father was different, once,” I begin, my voice wavering slightly. “When I was little, he used to take me to this park near our house. We’d spend hours feeding the ducks, laughing about nothing. He loved art, you know. Said it made him feel alive.”
Luca leans forward slightly, his attention fixed on me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters. “But then he started gambling. It started small, and seemed harmless enough. Just a few bets here and there to make things more exciting.” My throat tightens, but I force the words out. “But it didn’t stop. The debts piled up, and with every loss, he lost a little more of himself. By the end, he wasn’t the man I knew.”
I pause to touch my throat. It feels raw and dry from within. “And the worst part? I couldn’t save him. No matter how much I tried, no matter how much I begged him to stop, it wasn’t enough.”
Luca reaches out, his hand brushing mine, adding no words to muddle the silence that’s fallen between us. It’s a small gesture, but the warmth of his touch grounds me in a way I didn’t expect. “You loved him,” he says, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it.
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I hated him for what he did, but yes. I loved him too.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The space between us is heavy with unspoken words, shared pain, and something else I can’t quite name.
“He didn’t deserve you,” Luca says finally, his tone steady but carrying an edge of something raw.
I glance up, meeting his gaze. “And what about you, Luca? Do you deserve me?”
His lips curl into the faintest smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “That remains to be seen.”
Then his hands are on me, strong, sure, and impossibly gentle. One arm slides beneath my knees, the other wraps around my back, and he lifts me like I weigh nothing at all. “Luca, what are you?—”
“Shh,” he murmurs, his voice low and resolute. “You’ve been carrying too much. Let me carry you for a while.”
My protests die on my lips as he starts walking, his steps steady despite the faint wince I catch in his expression. The man is still bleeding, for God’s sake, but here he is, acting as if nothing else matters but getting me where he wants me.
Where I want to be.
We move through the house, the dim light casting shadows across his sharp features. His jaw is set, his eyes forward, every inch of him radiating power and purpose. When we reach the bedroom, he doesn’t pause. He pushes the door open with his shoulder, the creak of the hinges loud in the silence between us.
Luca carries me to the edge of the bed, lowering me with a care that makes my chest ache. He doesn’t release me immediately. Instead, he lingers, his hands firm on my waist, his gaze holding mine as if searching for something. For a moment, the world narrows to just the two of us. The noise, the chaos, the betrayals, it all fades, leaving nothing but this charged, unbearable quiet. I don’t know who moves first, but when his lips find mine, the rest of the world ceases to exist.
11
LUCA
Valentina pulls me on top of her as we kiss. Her breathless whispers fuel the fire building between us, and with deliberate slowness, I guide her upward, pulling her into a seated position. I move behind her, the heat of her body against mine as I press her back to my chest. My hands trace her curves, claiming every inch, while my lips graze her neck, savoring her soft gasps that beg for more.
